


What If?

by EmRosie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Loneliness, Longing, M/M, Oblivious Harry, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Pining Draco, Pining Draco Malfoy, Sad Draco Malfoy, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7340023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmRosie/pseuds/EmRosie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the war ended, Draco Malfoy spends a lot of his time playing games of "What If?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If?

After the war, Draco Malfoy spent a lot of his time playing games of "What If?".

What if Potter had never saved him from the fire? He thought, during one particularly mind numbing lecture from Professor Binns. Well that one was easy. He'd be dea- thoughts of Crabbe swept to the forefront of his mind. The wobble of the furniture stack, the crackling of the flames, the terrifying, blood-curdling scream as his friend plunged into the Fiendfyre. 

Draco wiped the tear that dared to fall on the edge of his black school robe. A quick glance around told him that most of the other students, staring blankly around the room, were no doubt lost in similar thoughts and that his secret was safe. 

What if Potter had taken his hand in first year? He thought as he slunk down in what had become his armchair in the shadows, watching as Potter and Weasley jubilantly enjoyed a game of Exploding Snap in the centre of the Eighth Years shared common room. 

He shook his head, dismissing that what if as ridiculous. Even Draco knew his younger self had been an arrogant, snotty little git. The notion that Potter would have taken his hand was completely... He snorted aloud, unable to find words to finish his minds thought. 

What if Draco didn’t bare the Dark Mark? He’d long ago ceased delusions of never taking the mark; no matter how many times he revisited the scenario, the night the Dar- he bore his wand down on his exposed arm, grinning manically while his mother had been forced to kneel at his feet, a single, silent tear tumbling down her cheek… Every time the memory visited him, he knew in the depths of his heart that saving his mother from pain was worth the twisted scar on his arm. He would never have chosen differently. But… What if it was gone? That was a notion – although it too was just as delusional - that he did allow himself to ponder. He'd tried every charm, concealment, curse... To no avail. Every time he shielded himself from the other boys in his dorm as he stripped to change, every time he waited until the depths of the night to shower so that no one would see... It was ridiculous, he knew, as The Prophet had outed his mark with disgust and horror when they reported on his freedom. 

Still, as he stood under the spray of the showers late at night - or should that be early morning? -, he imagined the soap with washing away the mark, how the dark, black lines would run from his skin and how the ink would pour down the drain at his feet. 

What if Potter had never spoken at his trial? This one often left Draco puzzling for hours. It was often accompanied by further questions; why did Potter testify? What had he gained from Draco’s freedom? Why, if he had been so determined to secure Draco’s freedom, did he now act as if he didn’t exist? The memories of his trial still woke Draco in the darkest of nights, shaking and sweating in the tightly drawn confines of his four poster school bed. He remembered the thick, heavy chains cast around his ankles, the dirty, ruined robes which hung from his rapidly thinning frame and his limp, greasy hair hanging in his eyes as he walked – or rather, thanks to the chains, shuffled. He remembered waiting in the holding cells of the Ministry, receiving only bits of news every now and then. His father had been sentenced to Azkaban, of course. His father’s fate saddened Draco, as he would always love his father but, in part, he was relieved. His father had been the one to invest their family in the Dar- him, forcing Draco and his mother to his will. He heard of others, known Death Eaters the Ministry quickly rounded up and sentenced to imprisonment. There were no surprises in the names Draco heard whispered up and down the corridors in those long, helpless weeks. Draco never entertained any illusions of freedom; he knew anyone who bore the mark as he did had more chance of his Aunt Bellatrix returning from the dead and declaring her unyielding love for muggles than they did of being pardoned. 

But then, the day before his own trial, he heard the furious whispers of the guards as things changed. He heard Potter’s name intermingled with his mothers. He caught snatched words; Potter testified… Saved his life in the forest… Didn’t give him up to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… Wouldn’t be dead, he said, if it wasn’t for her… Mrs Malfoy… House arrest for a year… He had pleaded, for the first time in his life, to know more. He had received nothing but scorn, scowls and mutters of ‘you’ll get what’s coming, even if your mother didn’t.’ 

But, of course, he hadn’t. When he had stepped into the courtroom he had seen him instantly; Potter, all dress robes and power. He had already commanded the witness box, his magic appearing to crackle furiously around him as Draco was led into the magically binding chair in the centre of court. Potter had launched into his tirade, the words of which visited Draco in many lonely nights; Shouldn’t even be here… Just a kid… Forced to take the mark… Never killed anyone, lowered his wand… Saved my life, didn’t identify me… I didn’t save his life just to see him rot… Potter’s words, of course, had been taken as scripture by the Wizengamot. Even if he wasn’t the saviour of the wizarding world, Draco found it hard to believe anyone could have denied his power, his certainty…. Just thinking about it now sent shivers down Draco’s spine. But, what if Potter hadn’t spoken for him? Well, he’d be rotting away in Azkaban of course. 

 

What if Potter looked at him, the way Draco looked at him? He was certain Granger had already seen him staring. She was observant and, Draco had to admit, as smart as everyone made her out to be. He spent hours – a fact that he would, of course, only admit to himself – watching Potter across the castle. He watched him from across the vast Great Hall, eating at each meal as if he would never see food again. As Draco completed each meal with the same internal gusto (although he didn’t let such emotion show publically) he could understand how Potter’s experiences during the war left him wondering where his next meal may come from. Toward the end, as the Malfoy’s fell further and further from grace with Volde- him Draco knew he had certainly felt the same. He watched him in class too, from the confusion and desperation that streaked his face in the dungeons as each of the demanding N.E.W.T potions turned to various undesirable forms from soup to slime to the grace and elegance with which he moved in defence, even outperforming their Professor’s pitiful attempts to teach the subject in Potter’s presence. He thought he got away with his staring in that class, though – the entire class were always transfixed as Potter moved, duelled and spun his magic through the air.

But in the shared eighth year common room, even in the depths of his armchair in the corner, he was sure Granger was beginning to catch on. Each time he allowed himself more than the briefest glance – Potter with his brow furrowed, bent over a sheaf of parchment as he scribbled his latest essay… Potter’s face alight with laughter as he joked with his fellow Gryffindor’s… Potter’s face gentle with a soft, sappy smile as he watched his best friends cuddled up together as he read a Quidditch magazine… Each time he allowed himself that indulgence, Granger always seemed to be watching. She would force Draco to accept her gaze, her brow furrowed – not in hatred, or in anger, or in any of the emotions he would have once seen, but in…. 

Every time Draco began to see the pity that clouded her eyes, he would force himself to tear his gaze away, telling himself he was imagining things. 

What if Potter kissed him? These thoughts were especially reserved for solitude as he lay in bed, his curtains drawn and charmed impenetrably around him. He would start with his earlier 'what if', where he would catch Potter staring as often as Draco knew he stared in return. He'd imagine that one night in the common room, Potter would wave all of his friends off to bed, saying he needed to finish some homework. Granger would be pleased, of course, and drag the Weasel off to do something that Draco didn't want to spend time considering. But Potter, he would remain until it was only them, Potter in the sofas in the centre, Draco in his chair in the shadowed corner. As soon as the last person went up to bed, Potter would call out his name so quietly he'd barely hear it - yet, at the same time, it would be all he could hear - and beckon him over. Draco's body would thrum with nerves but he would stand, crossing the distance between them. Potters brilliant green eyes would bore into his, bright and challenging and perfect. Draco would try to say something - anything - but Potter would gently place a finger on his lips, silencing him. The words he didn't even know he would say would die on Draco's lips and then, too suddenly yet somehow too slowly, Potter would replace his finger with his lips. Their kiss would be everything Draco imagined; soft and warm yet demanding and hard because, really, nothing between them could be any different. Harry - because, in these thoughts, Draco couldn't imagine the other boy as Potter - would slide his tongue out along Draco's lips and he would be only too willing to part his answer. Their tongues would slip together, Harry would taste of treacle tart, pumpkin juice and something unexplainably Harry. Draco would be unable to resist bringing his hands into the other boys hair and, as he did so, Harry would pull him closer. They would move together on the sofa in his mind as Draco brought himself to the edge, moaning out the other boys name as he spilled over the bedsheets. 

Afterwards, he'd cast a cleaning charm and - thankful for the silencing charms he cast before - curl up alone and sob until he fell asleep. 

What if he sat next to Potter in potions? This thought was new. Potter had always been useless - until he had Serverus's book, of course - and now he was without it again his attempts were pitiful. He was somewhat saved by having Granger as a partner but for the past week she had been sick - something half the castle had come down with - and his usually mediocre attempts to brew were borderline deadly. He could sit next to Potter as everyone entered - he could come in first at sit at Potters usual table, but then he'd run the risk of Potter sitting elsewhere... So he would wait until the class was almost due to start and then he'd slip in beside Potter. He wouldn't say anything, but when he began to go wrong Draco would guide him back. They would brew companionably together and, afterward, Potter would thank him. They would slip back to normal, of course - Draco had no grand delusions that one potion could fix a history such as theirs - but in the next class, Potter would beckon Draco over to sit beside him. Their brewing would lead to conversation and then, eventually, those conversations would be taken outside the dungeons, they'd become friends, maybe even lov...

A large pop issued from Draco's cauldron, causing a splurge of green to spurt into the air. Merlin, he'd been so focused on Potter sitting alone he'd forgotten his own Strengthening Solution... 

What if, Draco asked himself a few days later as they went back for their next potions lesson, he stopped asking what if? 

He would do it. He would sweep into the room and place his bag beside Potters, pull out his textbook and take the stool beside his. There would be stares, of course, but he'd imagined the scenario so many times that he was ready for it. He was, thanks to his daydreams, even a little behind his usually impeccable schedule, so he would be able to slip in next to Potter without time for anyone to say a word before Slughorn began. 

Draco almost bounced on the balls of his feet as he neared the classroom door, swinging it open and stepping inside. 

To find Granger, fit and healthy, and in his seat beside Potter. 

"Mr Malfoy, do hurry up, the lesson is about to begin!"

Draco deflated, dropping down alone into his usual, solitary stool.

What if Granger had been ill, just for one more day...


End file.
